


Blood is the Color of Freedom.

by horeforhange



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Blood and Violence, Bonding, Canonical Character Death, Character Death, Complicated Relationships, Death, Denial of Feelings, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Falling In Love, Heavy Angst, M/M, Military, Mutual Pining, Nonbinary Character, Nonbinary Hange Zoë, Other, Reader-Insert, Slow Burn, Spoilers, Titans, Tragic Romance, Unrequited Love, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-15 07:14:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28934616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/horeforhange/pseuds/horeforhange
Summary: "Remember: we are warriors, not soldiers. You're growing attached.""We all have, don't push your blame on me. I play my role well is all. Have you lost faith in me, Bertolt? In our mission?""I've lost as much faith in you as I have Reiner. Annie thinks so too. You both have softened over the years and they've taken advantage of your warmth. You're growing attached, (Y/N), and that jeopardizes our mission. Tell me, would you be able to kill them? Sasha? Marco?Eren?"Your heart seizes and you hesitate. Something in Bertolt’s eyes gives way from disappointment to disgust."You're attached."
Relationships: Eren Yeager/Reader
Kudos: 28





	Blood is the Color of Freedom.

**Author's Note:**

> I have Eren brain rot currently and it is the main inspiration for this fic! (Y/N) is non-binary and uses they/them pronouns and is from the same nation as Onyankopon for a little reference. Please enjoy <3!
> 
> By the way, the main character will be referred to as (Y/N) (L/N), so if you have a text editor like InteractiveFics, then I highly recommend you to use it for further immersion.
> 
> WARNING: Spoilers for the entirety of the AOT anime/manga.
> 
> Update 2/19: I'll be rewriting this entire chapter because I'm a perfectionist LOL I'll try and update whenever I can :))

Your mother laughs (almost blustering) like that of a caned horse; her breaths were shallow and fleeting, face distorted so grotesquely out of anger that her eyes hardly mirrored the gentleness they usually held and that you were most accustomed to. You could see from behind the tattered cloth wrapped loosely around your eyes that your mother lay arched over a motionless figure, her breathing so ragged and violent that it sounded as if she were close to dying.

If you didn't know any better, you might've thought she was.

The figure wore bright orange pants that ended in beaded tassels and was accentuated with greens, blues, and reds the color of the clay that you used to mold near the dirt banks of your sleepy village. The same pants your father loved to wear whenever he gathered that clay to use for his pottery to sell to curious foreigners looking for 'exotic' wares. You couldn't see very well from where you kneeled (and that damned cloth didn't help much, either), but you felt as though at that moment you didn't need to see as much as you needed to feel. Your mother was in pain, that much was made clear as crystal. You were young, nearly pushing into your eighth summer since your birth, but you were not a naive child. Your mother always commented on how she felt remorse for not sheltering you as soon as you left her womb. She never elaborated on what she meant by those offhanded muses, but in the years to come, you assumed she felt responsible for your bleak outlook on life - and furthermore, humanity - at such a minor and impressionable age. 

Your heart beats to the swing of your mother's breathing, her voice caught between a tight lump forming in the back of her throat and her blind rage fueled further by the death of her husband, wrathful eyes staring along the dirt road edged with rigid soldiers. The streets were barren, you noted, save for the soldiers rimming the unpaved streets donning foreign military uniform you only briefly remember from history class. It hadn't occurred to you until your mother began speaking that you were sitting there stunned, perhaps in fear that if you were to suck in a breath of dusty air that you would be met with the butt of a soldier's gun.

"You would have me watch as my beloved bleeds out before me and my child only to receive mere crumbs of the vestiges of our labor; our crop," her words were hissed through bloodied, missing teeth, strings of blood and snot and tears drooling from the bottom of her bruised chin, "Tell me, _Marleyans_ , are you satisfied? Our village has nothing more to give, you and your commanders know this, and yet you continue to pillage and kill, and pillage and kill some more." She spits a wad of reddened mucus at the feet of the soldiers before her, but they do not falter. Instead, you vaguely make out a discreet arm gesture in a direction you can't quite decipher, before the breath in your mother's throat sputters and she begins yelling a string of frantic curses in your native langue, right before you feel the cold edge of an object pressed uncomfortably close to the center of your back.

"Stand."

Their voice trilled slightly as they spoke, and you only noticed belatedly that this was the voice of a child. It was small and shrill, like the morning tunes baby birds sing when they strive for their mother's attention. Rather than command you to stand, it sounded as if they were _begging_ you too. Your hesitance caused the cold object against your back to quiver by the tiniest margin, and the warbling in this child's voice began to swell the louder their tone rose. 

"Please--um, please do not make me repeat--"

"Reiner." A sharp voice cut in through the child's rambling, and at the authoritative lilt in his voice, your back stiffens and grows firm. If you hadn't felt it before, fear was at long last settling into the pits of your twisted guts. This was no dream: your home was being ransacked, your country was at war with Marley, and the last remnants of warmth emanating from your father's body have begun to snuff underneath your mother's lonesome hand. 

"Yes, my apologies Commander Magath," the boy - Reiner, if you heard correctly - steadied his breath and smothered any and all apprehension that coiled in his tone into a flat monotone. The next he spoke, the metal object he held firmly in his hands was leveled to the back of your head, no longer quivering and sitting eerily still at the rear of your cranium. "Stand. You, and you as well," as the fates would have it, you were granted a tiny sliver of reprieve when he gestured to your neighbors with his gun, but the moment the barrel made contact with your skull again you fought the urge to whimper, "After your blindfolds are untied, begin walking. Don't look back and don't stop moving under _any_ circumstances. Else I'll shoot you dead." His tone still sounded guarded, conflicted even, but it was fortified behind a facade of military righteousness. You could tell from his small display of confidence that he thought what he and his fellow soldiers were doing was the right thing to do, even if it involved stealing the lives of innocents.

Coiled strands of hair caked with clay stuck messily against your flushed cheeks, pearls of sweat spilling from your forehead and falling into the sand underneath as you uneasily unfurl from your crouched position. Soon after, your blindfold was loosened enough to where it slipped from your face and waves of daunting light began assaulting your senses, leaving you temporarily blinded as you hastily bumble forward. Hot sand is in between your toes, forcing you to stumble this way and that as you surge your way forth through the suffocating stares of the Marleyan soldiers. Behind you, you hear the sound of a muffled pop and a loud thud, then the desperate pleas for forgiveness from people who are quickly silenced by another pop, then another, until the sobs from your people are choked back only by sheer force of will and asphyxiating dread. 

You never looked back. You kept pushing forward, even in spite of how many times you stumbled over your own feet. By the time the realization of the moment had finally sunk in deep enough for you to appropriately react to the situation, you were whisked away in the cargo compartment of an aircraft with nine other children of varying ages. The air was noiseless and no one dared utter any grievances or lament over the possibility of their parents having been killed lest a Marleyan soldier overhears them, so the ride to wherever they were taking you and the others was quiet and motionless. You had no time to grieve for your father (and the possibility of your mother's death as well), and even after years spent being indoctrinated into hating your cursed bloodline, you have yet to allot time to think of your parents. You had bitterly hoped that they would understand this; that you were focusing on your survival and concentrating on finding a way back home, but somewhere during the process of indoctrination, you began believing your kidnappers. Pushing the blame of what happened to your people onto the "Island Devils" who have no clue of your existence. Yes, you would like to hope that your parents would be proud of your survival, but your survival came at the cost of someone else's freedom. 

You imagine them looking down at you bitterly, eyes thronged with pity and regret.


End file.
